


on the edge of the world or wherever we are

by swimthewholeriogrande



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Ableist Language, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Era, Canonical Child Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Period Typical Attitudes, Protectiveness, The Refuge, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-08 22:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: Jack would follow Crutchie anywhere - and that includes the Refuge.-In which Jack doesn't run from the riot, fails to save Crutchie, and in the end cannot save himself either.





	1. Chapter 1

Jack had one rule in his life, learned from sitting on his ma's knee in hazy five year old memories; he always protected his friends. He'd grown up strong, able to fight, so most of the time it was easy to do. He couldn't count how many times he'd intervened in street brawls, broken up squabbling kids, cracked policemen on the back of the head to drag a troublemaker back to the lodging house for a scolding - Crutchie especially was one of his usual suspects.

It wasn't that Crutchie actively looked for trouble, and it wasn't that he couldn't take care of himself - Jack had crumbled from a hit to the back of the knee with that damn cane too many times to believe that - but he tended to attract fights more than the average newsie. At least once a week Jack found himself stepping into some alley to see Crutchie fighting tooth and nail with a messenger boy or a butcher's assistant or anyone who had a bone to pick with a crip (who was a lot stronger than he looked). He always looked positively feral, and most of the time he was winning, but Jack could never resist jumping to help. It was what his ma had said before she died, and he was always gonna listen to his ma. 

But there were certain times - few and far between - where Jack would be too late. Where instead of finding Crutchie fighting, he'd find him after, snarling at nothing as he tried to stand against a dirty back-street wall, or he'd limp back to the lodging house past curfew with the sourest look on his face and filthy handprints on his bad leg. Every time that happened Jack would feel sick shame curling in his stomach, guilt and worry flooding every vein. He was supposed to be there; that was his one job. 

You couldn't save everyone, though. And in 1899, the newsie riot was a fight too big for Jack to be everywhere at once; he was darting around to every grappling pair, blood running into his eyes, when he tripped - fucking tripped - over Crutchie.

He looked down and oh, there, in the dirt, Crutchie's face was thick with grime and glowing. "Help me up!" he shouted over the noise, "the Delanceys are -"

Jack was collapsed on Crutchie before he felt the hit to the back of his neck, seizing down his spinal chord and making him flop like a ragdoll. He landed heavily on the other boy, and Crutchie yelped in surprise and pain, but Jack was winded and gasping. He felt Crutchie's fingers lace around his back, digging painfully into his shoulderblades, trying to push him up to stand but Jack couldn't. 

"Jack," Crutchie groaned, "he's -"

Metal cut into Jack's wrists so hard that he felt skin break, and he was hauled up by his arms behind his back. His shoulders ached. He saw someone grab Crutchie's bad ankle and tug, and Crutchie's eyes rolled. 

It was Snyder, he knew it was Snyder; Jack jerked as hard as he could, mindless in an effort to grab Crutchie away from Morris' cruel hands, but he was no match for a grown man. Snyder was breathing heavily in his ear and it made his skin crawl. "Get off," Jack growled, bucking wildly, "Crutchie!"

"J-"

"Right, that's enough." came the voice in his ear, cutting through the world around, and the splitting pain that followed switched Jack out like a light.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ah -"

Jack woke up with a groan already rumbling in his throat, in time with the rattle of the floor beneath him. He was on a carriage, heading to - to - he shut his eyes tight, feeling a headache scream up against his skull; he didn't want to think. He didn't want to even stand. 

But he owed it to, shit, to Crutchie, who was on his side about a foot away like he'd been thrown there. Crutchie's trouser leg was ripped up to his thigh, and he was missing his shoes, bare feet making him look too young for Jack to handle. Jack crawled over on his stomach, tensing everytime they went over a bump in the road, and poked at his shoulder.

"Wake up." he hissed, not wanting the driver to hear. "Crutch, you gotta get up before we get there." 

He couldn't help but think back to seven years prior when he'd been in the exact same situation; smaller and weaker but on his way to hell. The wagon hadn't even been washed, it smelled like, and just like before he was hurt and scared and a failure.

This time, at least, he wasn't alone - but he'd never wanted this for anyone else. Especially not Crutchie. 

Crutchie finally stirred and seemed reluctant to open his eyes. "No," he whispered, almost to himself, but Jack heard and sighed. 

"I know you're tired, pal, but I think we're almost there."

"Where...where?'

The light filtering through the slatted windows was going grey; Jack heard voices, horse hooves, a gate sliding, and resented that they were being transported like cattle. He focused on explaining the situation. It was too late for sugar-coating, for soothing or reassurance - Crutchie had comforted Jack after too many nightmares to think the Refuge would be bearable. His face dropped further at every word, and Jack wanted to cry but he bit his lip, knew he had to be strong. It wasn't about him this time. 

"You let me handle this." he ordered tersely. "Don't say a word unless you's spoken to, and don't talk back." Jack allowed the ghost of a smile to grace his face. "That's my job."

Crutchie shook his head fiercely. "I won't let you get hurt."

That's what I said about you, and look where we are, Jack thought bitterly, but before he could vocalise that the wagon was cracked open. Harsh, grown-up hands jerked them out without preamble, reopening the lacerations on their wrists from the still-right handcuffs, and Jack looked up to see the imposing building that had haunted him for years standing proud and infamous.

"Welcome back, Kelly," one of the guards sneered. "Must be like home by now."

Jack slipped into feral snark, the only persona he'd found that allowed him to survive the Refuge and all that came with it. He stamped hard on the man's foot, earning a curse, and asked bitingly, "Miss me, boys?"

The grip on his upper arms tightened to leave bruises as they started to frogmarch him to the door. "Watch it." came the reprimand with a painful pinch, and then Jack twisted around and saw the first issue.

The guard with Crutchie was half-dragging him, the other boy unable to keep him with the fast pace. "I need my crutch," he was complaining through gritted teeth, "I can't walk without it."

Jack watched with growing rage and horror as Crutchie was seized by the back of his collar like a kitten's scruff and propelled roughly forwards, choking as his toes barely scraped the ground. "Then don't walk." the guard snorted, uncaring of Crutchie's yelp of pain and shock. Jack fought restlessly to help, but it was no use; within minutes they were inside.

Initiation into the Refuge was unchanging; you were logged with a name and crime - inciting of violence and disturbance of the peace for both of them - and then brought to see Snyder. The records were easy if a little humiliating, but Snyder -

He was clean and well-groomed in his plush office, as if he hadn't been soaking kids not twenty-four hours earlier. Jack felt so young, like a scolded child, and Crutchie was so slow and looping without his cane, stumbling into the room like a drunkard.

"Jack Kelly." Snyder had eyes like a sharp, dead and flat. "And little Charlie, isn't it?"

Jack spat, bloody. "Go to hell." he growled, and Crutchie hissed, "Don't," and Snyder smiled benevolently. He stood and crossed the room until he was, far too close - and before Jack could even twitch a hand had come striking across his face.

His cheek went hot and flaming. In the same instance Snyder shoved him to the floor, unbalancing Crutchie who been subtly leaning against Jack's side, and both boys lay on the ground - suddenly two inches tall against the embodiment of fear.

Snyder loomed like an obelisk. "Your impudence is expected, Kelly, but it will not be tolerated." He took a step forward and Jack and Crutchie scrambled back instinctively; Jack's heart was beating out of his chest. "You've both been given a sentence of six months and you will serve it, in its entirety."

"We'll see," Jack muttered, unable to not have the last word, and this time Snyder pressed his boot, sharp and precise, onto the jutting bone of the ankle of Crutchie's bad leg.

There was an unearthly scream. Jack rolled, so fast it hurt his back to twist, over Crutchie's body to shield him but the damage was done. "Ow, ow, fuck," Crutchie was whimpering, his face carved into a snarl that didn't match the pain in his voice. "Fuck, my leg -"

"Bet you think you're such a big man, Spider!" Jack sat up on his knees and pulled Crutchie protectively to his chest, trying to help him stand. Helplessness lit a fire under him. "Picking on kids. How fucking brave of you."

Snyder stepped back, bored now. "Take them to room four." he ordered dismissively, sitting back at his desk. "Next time I see them I expect an attitude adjustment."

They were hauled up, split apart, and Jack growled resentfully but the adults around him were tired of the ruckus. He still struggled but it was half-hearted now, and he was too focused on making sure Crutchie could keep up to fight any harder; instead he let himself be led to one of the thick, rotted doors and shoved in.

It was full to bursting, as per usual, of huge eyes and gaunt filthy faces that paid them no heed. Jack helped Crutchie to the only free bunk, beneath a barred window with no glass to keep out the chill, and they both collapsed onto the threadbare mattress.

"I hope the fellas are okay." Crutchie panted, his eyes rid-rimmed. Jack snorted, pulled the other boy's bad leg into his lap and started to work on the bruise forming on his ankle.

"Kid," he sighed, looking around at the dismal, stinking room, "I don't think they could be any worse off than us right now."


	3. Chapter 3

When the morning bell was rung, it went on and on and on; the familiar jangling drone made Jack burrow deeper into the thin mattress, half-hiding his face in Crutchie's chest. They'd spent the night curled close as cats against the intrusive cold, but they were still shivering.

Crutchie's eyes were glazed and confused. "Circulation?" he asked, and Jack had to grit his teeth to hold back a dry sob.

"No, pal. C'mon, I'll help you up." Jack finally dragged himself upright; around them, boys stirred and groaned. He didn't know what they were going to do without the crutch, how Crutchie would get around and do the harsh jobs he remembered being given. For now he just slung the other boy's arm around him, and they struggled towards the door.

There was no breakfast, and Jack was caving in with hunger. Instead the two of them were passed threadbare sponges and tin buckets of stinging bleached water - it made both of their eyes stream - and sent to one of the latrines.

Jack tried to take Crutchie's bucket for him, but a guard snatched it and shoved it into Crutchie's chest, making him stumble. "He carries his own." the careless man ordered. "No freeloaders here."

Jack glared. "He ain't a freeloader." he snapped. "He just doesn't have his -"

"Jack. It's fine." Crutchie's face was pale and set; he was listing alarmingly to one side, practically hopping on one leg as he tried to steady the bucket against his hip. Jack saw rivulets of chemical water narrowly missing his torn nails. "I can do it myself."

At least, Jack thought grimly, the stench of the bleach covered up whatever the latrines must have smelled like - and they were alone, finally. The first thing Jack did was check the window, but the bars were firmly screwed in.

Crutchie sat heavily on the ground, the muscles of his bad leg trembling visibly. His ankle was blackened. "You can't be doing stuff like that." he muttered regretfully. "They're just gonna soak you."

Jack abandoned the window and knelt down in front of him. He reached out, almost timid for some reason, and clapped Crutchie's shoulder. "I ain't gonna stop being your friend." he said, fierce with affection, feeling it in every bone. "There isn't anywhere we could be where that would happen."

"I'm not a freeloader." Crutchie replied, with equal fervour. "I amn't some - some cripple."

"Of course you're not." Jack purposefully avoided looking at the twisted limb between them, focusing instead on Crutchie's bright eyes. "You're you."

There was a moment of silence where Jack's grip rested heavy on Crutchie's shoulder, and then both of them pulled away awkwardly; somehow that had felt more tender than the entire night pressed against each other. Jack coughed and turned to the bucket, passing the sponge in between his hands restlessly.

"Right. We should start." He looked around in mild disgust at the room. "If we don't finish there'll be hell to pay."

The water, when he plunged his hands into it, was so chemically strong that it burned. Jack almost kicked the bucket away from it immediately, but there was nothing to be done; he bit his tongue and started to scrub the dirty concrete floor with little progress.

They cleaned for what felt like hours until both their hands were red. Jack kept an eye on Crutchie, who seemed to be holding up well enough - he hadn't stood up in a while, but his section was far cleaner than Jack's was. Jack's pulse was starting to rise with the same fear he had as a child - the fear of fists and kicks and chains and that tiny closet on the fourth floor - 

Jack fumbled blindly for Crutchie's hand, ignoring any past awkwardness, ignoring the sting. "Fuck," he hissed, "there's no way they'll be happy with this."

Crutchie squeezed his fingers tightly. "Screw 'em." He moved imperceptibly between Jack and the door and Jack loved him so much for it. "I'd like to see them try and soak us."

"I wouldn't." Jack helped Crutchie to his feet, keeping their hands locked tightly together. "Honestly, pal, just let me do the talking when they come get us."

"Cause that went so well," Crutchie muttered, but he was smiling a bit. He steadied himself on Jack's elbow and then his stomach growled like a bear; they made brief eye contact and began to howl with inexplicable laughter.

It echoed through the room, and into the hall outside, filling the horrible, hateful building with a moment of light; and that, naturally, could not last.

The guard was jerking them apart before Jack even noticed him coming in, and doing it with such force that they stumbled. "That doesn't sound like working to me," he snarled, and the happy bubble bopped with a sound in Jack's ears like a sigh.

"We was just -"

"Shut your mouth, crip."

The slur, directed so venomously at his best friend from a grown adult, made Jack flush red to his neck with anger. He came barrelling back from where he was shoved with a vengeance.

It earned him a kick in the shin that he felt bruise bone-deep. Jack grimaced with the ache, stalling where he stood, but Crutchie stepped up this time and got in the guard's face like he was twice his real size.

"Don't you call me that." he said hotly, even as Jack tried to intervene. "You know nothing about me OR Jack, and you ain't never gonna."

"Crutchie, I said let me -"

Suddenly winded by a punch to the stomach, Jack reeled, and he didn't know if he had even finished his sentence because his ears were ringing. He sucked in instinctively and got no air; out of the corner of his eye he saw the guard hook his foot around Crutchie's ankle and pull and Crutchie went down, crashing into one of the buckets and the bleach-water - all Jack could think, faintly, was that he'd never get the smell out of his clothes.

"Finish up. Now." The man's voice was far away. Crutchie was lying quite still; his eyes were squeezed tight shut and streaming. The diluted solution had soaked into his sleeves and was sodden where Jack hastily pulled him up.

His chest still fell strangely tight, but he managed to get Crutchie to a swaying stand. He wiped under his eyes with his thumb. "It didn't get in, did it?" He was surprised at how dull his voice was, already exhausted from the constant fight, and Crutchie shook his head.

"Are you alright, Jack?"

"Fuck, I'm fine." Jack sighed. When he was sure Crutchie was steady Jack let go and turned back to the task; the rapidly spreading pool on the floor would at least help with the cleaning.

"All this before ten o'clock." Crutchie said softly. Jack knew they were both thinking the same thing - that they should be selling right now, two kings of New York City, able to go and do whatever they pleased. Instead they were soaked, tired and so goddamn hungry.

Strange how fast things could change, Jack reflected morosely, and got back to cleaning.


	4. Chapter 4

Scrubbing turned into sweeping, an endless day, which turned into the most miserable dinner Jack had ever had - and that was coming from a kid who'd lived on the streets. Despite the terrible food the other Refuge boys were like vultures, and Jack had to wrap both his arms around his bowl just to keep hungry fingers away from it. 

Crutchie was getting harassed even worse, the easier target next to Jack's bulk. He kept shuffling further and further into the corner to escape the hostile glares that Jack couldn't shield him from, but it came to a head when a large boy suddenly stood and held out his hand. 

"Give it." he growled, his face pinched and cruel. "Or I'll soak you." 

Crutchie's eyebrow quirked, but Jack saw his hands go white-knuckled around the chipped ceramic. "Not gonna happen." he replied calmly; Jack shifted closer imperceptibly but fought the urge to leap in.

The bigger boy crowded in closer. His body was taught like a bowstring, ready to pounce, and now Jack was starting to get antsy. "Listen, gimp-leg," he snarled, "give it to me or -"

The second his hard hand came towards Crutchie, Jack was up and between them in one fluid movement, catching the boy's wrist and holding it firm where it was stopped. "Enough." he ordered. The room was silent. "Fuck off and eat your own." 

Crutchie's attacker sneered. "He your pet, Kelly?"

"He's my friend." Jack's lip curled. "Don't suppose you'd know anything about having friends." 

There was a sharp bang on the wall. "Lights out!" a guard snapped. "I hear anyone out of bed five minutes from now, they're dead."

The petty argument was forgotten and a mad scramble began for beds; the boys scattered like animals, like the rats in the walls, to find any bunk with room. Jack shot for the one by the window, regardless of the chill, and waited for Crutchie to cross the room. Watching him limp was hard, but they never would've gotten the bed if he had to help the other boy across.

It took Crutchie some time to come over, his gait awkward and loping; there were a few snickers, a jeering murmur, and his face flared red with embarrassment. Jack bit his tongue and waited, not wanting to incite another fight.

There was no awkwardness, no shame in how they wrapped their arms around each other, heads tucked down with the ears cold and red; they stank of bleach. Jack could feel Crutchie fidgeting, restless, until finally Crutchie whispered, "You never let me defend myself." 

Jack's fingers were twisted in the back of Crutchie's shirt, and he pulled unconsciously at a loose thread, guilt tickling the back of his throat. "I just worry," he tried to explain, "it's ain't that I don't think you can, it's that I don't want you t'have to."

Crutchie laughed a little, breathlessly and without humour. "Jack Kelly, prince of damsels in distress."

"You're no damsel." And he wasn't; Jack could hear the wiry muscles in Crutchie's arms, the roughness his cheek where he'd grow stubble by the time they got our of here. There was no pretending that Crutchie was some girl in his arms. "And I'll tone it down, okay?"

"Thank you. And thank you for - protecting me."

Crutchie's grateful words fell on his shoulder; Jack felt the other boy press a kiss to the column of his neck, and as unfamiliar and truly alien the action was from his best friend - from a boy - it sent a wave of familiar warmth and affection through him. He wanted to duck his head and return it, or kiss Crutchie somewhere else - his pulse point or his cheek or his mouth - but it was cold and dark and a frightening concept. There was a distant yelling as a boy in a different room got in trouble for God knows what, and Jack shivered in tandem with Crutchie, both holding their breath for a moment.

The moment had passed. Jack just held Crutchie tighter, already uneasy thinking of the next day, and waited until the other boy was asleep to go himself - to make sure Crutchie wouldn't have nightmares, to keep watch on the dreaded door.


	5. Chapter 5

Jack knew better than anyone how time in the Refuge almost ceased to exist. Single hours felt like days; every miserable second was endless. There was nothing else to do but slog through hours of labour, broken up by shivering sleep and fighting, and within a week it was taking its toll on Jack. His hands were constantly red and dry with bleach, he had a black eye blooming from a tussle with a larger boy over his bed - and he was so tired. All the time.

Crutchie's leg had become so bad without aid by that point that he couldn't rest any weight on it. Jack had taken to waking up early to massage the cramps out, further adding to to his exhaustion, but it didn't seem to be working anymore. It was getting harder for the two of them to fend off unwanted attention from the other prisoners when Crutchie could barely walk and Jack was falling asleep standing up.

They'd survived the first week without interacting with Snyder, but Jack knew it couldn't last - he was waiting for his check-in. 

As far as he knew, he was the only one who had check-ins as frequently as he did. At least once every few days, on every past stay at the Refuge, Jack would get taken to Snyder's office and get soaked like the older man was trying to kill him. He never knew why, and that was almost worse - maybe as an outlet for Snyder's temper, or to keep him from trying to rally the other boys, or as a punishment for a smart mouth and no self-preservation. He always got told it would set him right, but all it did was hurt.

As long as Crutchie didn't get a check-in, Jack could deal with it. He'd take any amount of beatings to keep them from his best friend, the only reason he'd made it this far; Crutchie was a single bright spot in a hard world of damp stone and endless work. Even half-paralysed by this point, he was showing incredible fortitude, but Jack just didn't know if that would last past a soaking. Keeping Crutchie safe was partly selfish, because he needed the other boy to keep him alive just as much as the other boy needed to be unharmed.

When the guard did come, Jack and Crutchie were rolling a chipped marble around. Jack knew immediately what it was, because the older man was staring at him with a sick sort of satisfaction, and he stood and brushed off his trousers.

"I gotta go." he muttered. He didn't want to leave Crutchie, but there was no way in hell he'd take him to Snyder. "I'll be back."

"Go where?" Crutchie pulled himself up with difficulty; his mouth was a hard, determined line. "What's happening?"

"Snyder's checking in on me." The lie made his tongue smart. "I'll be back, okay? Just go to bed."

Jack didn't let himself listen to anymore of Crutchie's protests. He'd barely helped the other boy to the bunk when the guard's hand squeezed the back of his neck, nails biting, and he jerked upright with a yelp.

"Jack?!"

He heard Crutchie's fearful exclamation, but he didn't look back.

It didn't take long to get to the office, in a dream-like state of dread, and the guard shoved him in so hard he stumbled into the desk. Snyder had a half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk and only one glass in front of him and shit, Jack was so screwed, Jack was always in so much trouble.

"Boy," the warden began before the door was even closed, "do you remember our lessons?"

Jack swallowed; he tried to stand up straight, to be brave, while Snyder pulled a belt through his fingers and changed the beat of Jack's heart with every dry rasp of leather. "Yep." He tried to keep his voice infuriatingly casual. "I don't really need a refresher."

The buckle hit the desk with a sharp sound and Jack couldn't hide his flinch. Snyder stood, breathing heavily, the white of his eyes bloodshot and beyond reason. "Your impudence is a disease." he panted. "This is for your own good, you useless child."

The rest was blurred and painful. Jack remembered scrambling for the door and the belt wrapping his wrist like a red-hot hand; the crack and whistle of it coming down on his back, the quick snap of the buckle breaking skin, and the heat of every blow. He knew he was making noise, hopefully not pleading, and Snyder was silent apart from huffs of exertion. Just like always, it didn't matter why it was happening in the thick of it, it was just happening - and he just had to dig his fingers into the floorboards and take it.

Finally Snyder let him go, numb-drunk and staggering, and the guard took him back to the bunkroom past curfew. Jack was just glad he hadn't been put in some closet for the night; at least he could see Crutchie and maybe get some sleep. He was more tired now, and aching, and every step pulled at the welts on his back. Blood was gathering at the waistband of his trousers. His mouth was dry with pain.

He collapsed on his bunk with a groan, rousing Crutchie who bolted up. "Jack!" he whispered, trying to ease him down as Jack bit back a cry at the mattress against the lashes. "What's wrong?"

"My back - with a belt - shit -"

Crutchie's trembling skated down Jack's back and then withdrew in horror. "Oh my God."

"I just...need to go to sleep." Jack finally found a comfortable position on his side and rested his head on Crutchie's chest, needing the familiar sound of his heart no matter how fast with worry it was. "S'okay. Really."

"You're bleeding." Crutchie sounded close to tears. "I'm sorry, Jack. I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again."

Jack was too exhausted to know the futility of the statement; he just revelled in the feeling of being protected, trying to block out the burning pain. "Thank you," he sighed, uneasily safe, and finally went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Getting up the morning after getting the breath whipped out of him was so difficult Jack nearly missed his call to work; as enticing as staying in bed was, punishment be damned, Crutchie firmly forced him up and out of the bunkroom. Any points where the belt broke skin, although the most dramatic spots to look at, were congealing into scabs - it was the angry raised lines that were the issue, blood pooling under skin and raising fire down his spine.

They were scrubbing again, this time in the kitchen - pantry locked, to their disappointment - and Jack knew it was the only chance he'd get to clean his wounds. An infection might kill him, and although that seemed tempting it wasn't an option. 

That was how Crutchie came to be leaning over him with a waterlogged sponge of bleach solution, Jack's torn shirt between his teeth to bite on. He could feel Crutchie trembling against his bare back, and when just a single drop hit one of the gashes Jack jumped and hissed. 

"Do it," he mumbled through the cotton, "Quickly, before I change my m-"

Crutchie squeezed the sponge without warning. A deluge of chemical water trickled down Jack's back and the shirt couldn't muffle his cry of pain. He scrambled forwards out of the stream instinctively and Crutchie backed away, panting just as hard as Jack.

"I thought it'd be better to just - like ripping off a plaster -"

"Ah, shit, you're right but holy hell, Crutchie." Jack breathed, shifting and restless as he waited for the burning to subside. "That was a mean trick." 

Crutchie smiled slightly. "S'what you used to do with me - used to rip out splinters before you finished a sentence."

Jack snorted, pulling his shirt back on as his back hummed, alive and on fire. "Ain't never said you should follow my example." He jostled Crutchie companionably as he retrieved his sponge. "We got work to do." 

The hours seemed to go a little faster with the lighthearted mood. Any tension between them from the sensitive moment in bed the night before dissipated, and Jack could almost pretend they were cleaning the lodging house or something - not that they ever cleaned that old place. He let himself drift and imagine what the other newsies were doing, whether the strike had continued. Surely Davey or Racetrack would have taken over. Sacrificing his freedom had to have some sort of cosmic payoff, and all Jack wanted was for his boys to catch a break for once in their lives. 

He was so far away that he knocked clean into Crutchie; the other boy didn't have a hope in hell in keeping them upright and sat down heavily on a lucky chair, Jack sprawled in his lap. There was heat radiating from both their skin from the labour, short hard breathing, and the chemical stink pervaded the air - but Jack didn't notice much of that. His face was entirely too close to Crutchie's, and - 

Crutchie inclined his head like he was telling Jack a secret and his lips brushed featherlight, fearful, over Jack's. Any audible breathing had ceased. Jack let his eyes slide shut, wanting so badly to forget anything but what was happening, but it was a luxury he couldn't afford for either of them. They were sitting in plain view, two boys kissing, two boys that would surely get their heads cracked open for it, and cowardice started to overrule Jack's amazement. 

He broke away with a tug at his heart and stood, taking a step back. "We gotta get back." Jack heard himself say. "They'll be expecting us." 

Crutchie didn't move; his face was destroyed. "Jack -"

Jack helped him up, squeezed his hand once just to show that it was alright. "It's okay." he said, overly simplistic. "We have to go." 

He was protecting them; it was the right thing to do. But feeling Crutchie's hand slip out of his, like the dead crackle of radio silence - nothing had ever felt more wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I updated this! I don't even know if anyone's still reading but I wanted to pick it back up. Enjoy!

Any semblance of comfort Jack had reaped from Crutchie's presence was fading fast after the kiss. Other than sleeping close, they barely touched, and although they still spoke as if nothing had happened there was an underlying tension. Crutchie seemed to be going out of his way to avoid touching Jack, maybe out of shame or fear, and it made Jack hate himself.

He should have made more of an effort to show Crutchie that he wasn't angry or disgusted by what had happened - that in fact it had been exactly the opposite, he'd never felt such fire - but it was too late. They were rarely alone now anyway; the two of them along with ten other boys were now working on a new bunkroom, piecing together wood to make room for more victims of the Refuge. The splinters were a bitch. 

Days and days of barely any food was starting to have an impact, especially on Crutchie. Jack was used to not eating, but Crutchie had been well taken care of at the lodging house and now the weight was slippinpg off him like old clothes. Hunger had put this dull shine in his eyes Jack knew must be reflected on his own; Jack could have circled the other boy's wrist with two fingers. 

His next check-in came too fast, and this time Crutchie knew what would happen and Jack had to half-shove him to stop the other boy following. "Leave it alone," he muttered, the guard's hand already bruising his bicep, "I'll be back."

Snyder set on him without warning as he entered, the belt already wrapped around his fist and his mouth curled in an ugly shape with scotch. Jack took the first blow without a sound, the belt singing across barely healed wounds, and then Snyder stood back for a moment. Jack opened his mouth to plead with him, going against every nature in his body for the shameful sake of saving his own skin. 

Mister Snyder," he said, firm even though his voice was shaking, and -

Jack didn't remember anything after that. He woke up in the black hole of a closet he remembered so well, bleeding and unable to stop shaking - he couldn't reach behind himself properly to soothe the welts. Not like Crutchie could.

God. Crutchie. Jack's heart was insistent against his ribcage, fit to burst. Everything had become so distressing and unfair so fast it was making his head spin, and still in his mind he was replaying that moment - Crutchie's soft mouth and the way his hands felt on Jack's waist, suddenly strong and sure. The look on his face when Jack had rejected him. 

He deserved to be in this tiny dark room alone and in pain; Jack was a monster.

He brooded until the door finally opened hours and hours later, and the light hurt his eyes. The commanding guard's hand on his back made him yelp, but it was just pain - he'd come to know now that pain was better than guilt, it was a distraction at least. And when Jack finally got pushed into the bunkroom, he'd give anything for an even bigger distraction.

Crutchie was stumbling, reeling, his face frozen in a rabid snarl as a boy baited him with light hits and all the others stood around watching and jeering. As Jack watched in frozen dismay, a sharp swipe to Crutchie's bad leg made it buckle and he landed heavily on one knee like a proposal, panting. He looked up, made eye contact with Jack, and -

"Hey, hey," someone crowed. "Babysitter's back."

Crutchie's cheeks flared with shame and indignation. His hand shot out and pinched the nerve in his attacker's ankle, a trick Racetrack had taught all of them year ago, and the larger boy joined him cursing on the floor.

Jack crossed his arms. "Don't seem to me he needs a babysitter." he said smugly, as Crutchie hauled himself up. "Maybe yous should realise that." 

The crowd dissipated, bored now that the fight was over, and as Crutchie limped over to Jack his opponent spat threateningly on the ground. "Ain't over, gimp." he muttered. Jack had to steel himself not to put him back on the floor.

Crutchie made this heartbreaking movement like he was going to touch Jack's face, and then his arm dropped back to his side as if he'd been burned. He was pale and gaunt, too thin and tired. "You were gone for so long." he breathed, "what did he do?"

Jack tried not to notice the flinch away. "Belt." He was starting to feel the sting more now and it was bitterly painful, enough to make his head light. "Then a closet. The hell was that, though?"

Everything in Crutchie's face was too sharp. He scowled and ducked his head, trembling visibly from hunger or exhaustion or, although Jack hated the thought, fear. "They's just bored." he muttered. "You needta sit down so I can check your back."

Jack dropped it, knowing that when Crutchie had that expression he'd lash out at anyone, and let the other boy pull up his shirt. The brushes of his fingers of Jack's back made Jack shiver for a completely different reason than pain.

"S'worse." the other boy said slowly. "We need real medical stuff - was it the -"

"Belt again." Jack let his shirt drop back down no matter how badly he wanted to keep Crutchie's hands on him - that wouldn't be fair to either of them.

The air smelled like iron and stale oxygen, breathed by a hundred starving children. Nothing was ever, ever fair.


	8. Chapter 8

Jack knew he was dreaming. 

He knew, and yet that didn't make it any easier - watching Snyder snap his belt on Crutchie's back, merciless, as dream-Jack just stood there. Inwardly he screamed at himself, but outwardly he felt his face was cruel and hard. 

Crutchie arched and bowed in pain. Jack looked and looked and looked until - 

He woke up in a sweat, losing water his dehydrated body couldn't afford to lose, and nearly knocked his skull off the top bunk. His back was on fire; he could feel every fibre in his shirt rubbing the lashes raw. His head swam and ached.

Something wasn't right. He pawed clumsily at Crutchie's shoulder - this new urgency overtaking the guilt of the dream - and mumbled, "I don't feel good."

Crutchie was slow to stir but when he did, he recoiled. "You's burning up," he whispered in horror. 

"M'dizzy." Jack felt slow and stupid; his heart thundered wildly in his ears. "Hurts."

"Oh God." A cool hand pressed against his forehead. "I think you got a fever."

Jack's hot head processed this at a snail's pace - all he knew was that being sick was never good, and especially not in this hellhole where he'd never get any help. When kids were sick at the lodging house they'd all pull together to cover their rent and buy them cough syrup, whatever it took. It went both ways too; Jack took care of his boys, and they took care of him.

But here all he could see in the dark was the outline of Crutchie's pale face, swimming in his blurred vision, and he couldn't help but reach out to trace his cheek. He knew he shouldn't be touching Crutchie - he didn't remember why - but he couldn't resist.

Crutchie's eyes were soft and scared. "Jack," he whispered warningly, but he didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry." Jack didn't know what he was apologising for but he felt awful about just about everything. The pillow rose up to meet him, or he fell back, and Crutchie was suddenly leaning over him, a vision in dirty hair and candle-glowing skin.

"Ssh." The cool hand was back on his forehead; his back spread burning pins and needles over his whole body. "Go t'sleep."

-

Jack didn't remember actually falling asleep or waking up, but brief flashes of awareness plagued him over the next dew days. There was Crutchie of course, and filthy sheets pressed against his shoulder blades, and arching, sickening heat twirling down his spine. He always tried to speak but only rough coughs ever came out, and whenever Crutchie was there he always hushed Jack. 

Then, quite suddenly, there was sweet relief; he was rolled onto his side and something cold was put on the lashes, something that stung at first and then sent numbness and ice across his fevered skin. "Whassat," he croaked, and it was a voice he didn't recognise that answered. 

"It's ointment, you's got a fection in your back." Whatever stranger it was sounded disgruntled to have gotten stuck with the job, and Jack would have been scared but he couldn't move without his head spinning. "Just shuddup and lie still."

Panic sparked dully in him. "Crutchie," he rasped, "where's my Crutchie?"

"Laid up." The other boy finished up and sniffed roughly, pulling Jack's shirt back down. "He got soaked real bad."

"Wha'?" Jack struggled to roll over but couldn't. His burning brain was alive with worry now. "No, no, why...where..."

The other boy snorted. "The crip? How you think Snyder let him get that fancy medicine?" he asked, not unkindly. "He got put through the damn ringer fore he managed to convince anyone to listen to him. He got just about what you shoulda got, and then a bit more jus' for having a gimp leg."

Jack's insides lurched sickeningly. "No!" he gasped, and then the darkness rolled over again, thick and black and choking.


	9. Chapter 9

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts -

Crutchie's throat was raw and aching; his leg shook and seized wildly, drawing tracks in the filthy floor, and he let out another mewling cry into the empty dark. It had been long enough now - surely Snyder must have had enough of soaking him and gotten the medicine for Jack. He couldn't take anymore of this.

When the door finally opened, Crutchie scrambled towards it. "Hey!" he called gratefully. "Hey, can I -"

"Shut it." The guard pulled him up by his hair, and Crutchie hissed. "You're finished. Time to go."

Crutchie did his best to keep up with the guard's pace, but in such a state it was a disaster to try and even move. "Jack?" he asked, wheezing, and the guard rolled his eyes.

"He'll live. You, I ain't so sure about."

-

By the time Jack struggled out of his fever, five pounds thinner and a lot paler, he was told that he'd been sick a whole week and Crutchie still wasn't back. He was starving, and some merciful boy had saved up Jack's rations so he had a veritable feast, but he couldn't eat without Crutchie. He just couldn't.

Seven fretful hours after Jack woke up, when all the other boys had just come back to the bunkroom from working, the door opened; Crutchie, almost unrecognisable, was flung into the room like a discarded coat. He flailed for a moment, crying out, until Jack scrambled to his side.

"Charlie," he muttered, horrified, "Christ, what'd you do?"

Swollen, glazed blue eyes barely focused on Jack's. Crutchie smiled and his lip resplit. "Jack," he breathed, sounding so relieved that Jack's stomach hurt - he didn't deserve Crutchie - "how you feeling?"

"Fine, I'm fine, you -"

There was a mean laugh. "Crip looks like roadkill." someone commented. "Even worse'n usual."

Jack ignored them, too preoccupied trying to get Crutchie to the bunk. When he laid him down, the other boy flinched and rolled over onto his side; there was blood seeping through the back of his filthy vest. "I had to get you medicine," he explained, his hands shaking as he grabbed at Jack's, "I couldn't let you die -"

"I know, ssh, s'okay." Jack interlinked their fingers, uncaring, and pulled Crutchie's head onto his knee. Tears burned in his eyes, and he closed them, overwhelmed. 'We gotta get out of here." he murmured, half to himself. "One of us is gonna get killed."

Crutchie frowned and blinked. "But we got five more months."

Jack growled. "There's no way in hell I'm letting you stay here five more months."

Crutchie's face contorted suddenly like he was in pain; he looked achingly ashamed. "Jack, I'm sorry." he whispered. "I'm sorry I did - I'm sorry I..."

"You did nothin' wrong." Jack wanted to say so much more - that he had wanted it as much as Crutchie, if not more, that Crutchie should never ever have that look on his face, that now wasn't the time to discuss it but when they were free - he brushed Crutchie's hair back and steeled himself for a promise.

"I'm gonna get us out of here." he swore, and the trust in Crutchie's eyes was enough to break Jack's heart.


	10. Chapter 10

It was one thing to make a promise, and another to follow through. Jack woke up the morning after he told Crutchie he'd get them out, rolled over and saw Crutchie's slack, blood-crusted face and thought with a sinking heart, how am I going to do this? The Refuge's security had doubled since the last time he got out; there would be no escaping on carriages this time. 

And his brief respite from work was over. He had to half-carry Crutchie out into the corridor while everyone else pushed past them, jostling the smaller boy until a pained gasp escaped him. Jack just held on tighter; he was too weak himself from hunger and his past sickness to do anything about it. 

"Feeling' good." Crutchie rasped stubbornly. "You can let, Jack, I can walk."

Jack's eyes flicked quickly to Crutchie's twisted, black-and-blue leg before he could stop himself and Crutchie's face darkened. He pushed away from Jack and stood balanced against the wall instead. "Don't," Crutchie snapped. "That don't mean I'm helpless."

"Christ, Crutchie, I didn't say that -"

"Line up!" the guard's voice cut through their bickering and made them both flinch. "You're going outside. You'll repaint the gate in silence. You will not speak with anyone passing by."

All Jack heard was 'outside', and he felt his face light up. He could finally see the sky, feel fresh air on his skin, maybe even rain - he could be clean. The mere thought of some kind of wash that wasn't a damp washcloth made him pathetically hopeful.

As happy as he was to leave the stinking building, when the guard started handing out the buckets of paint they were so heavy his arms started to shake. Jack knew he'd wasted away; he just to be able to carry huge stacks of paper without flinching and now he could barely hold a tin.

Crutchie wasn't faring much better, but Jack knew better than to help him when he was in that kind of mood. He fought the instinct to just take both tins when he saw the pain in his friend's face just for reaching out to take it from the guard - who, cruel and uncaring, laughed and shoved it directly into Crutchie's chest.

"Get moving." he sneered as Crutchie stumbled and wheezed and Jack cursed under his breath. "Don't make me call the warden."

Jack brushed their shoulders together comfortingly for support, and this time Crutchie didn't snap at him. "Ignore him," he muttered. "Just breathe. You can do it."

After another moment Crutchie secured his grip on the tin, and the two of them and several others were herded out of the door. They must have looked like surfacing moles, blinking and shivering in the cold grey light, their ragged clothes doing little to keep them warm.

The gate was peeling and rusting, and no amount of black paint could fix it. Within an hour Jack's arms were splattered in pitch; he could almost pretend he was just painting on the penthouse with Crutchie passing feedback and praise - if it wasn't for the towering walls, the cold thick iron of the gate. The bruises on Crutchie's neck and face.

No one passed by all morning, the dirty street outside clearly far off the beaten track. When someone finally did, Jack couldn't help but throw his brush down and lean as far through the bars as he could, only getting as far as his shoulder.

"Hey!" he whisper-shouted hoarsely. "Hey, you gotta help us!"

The figure turned. He saw a curl of red hair, a swirl of skirts, and it was Katherine. Katherine Plumber, her eyes wide and shocked and horrified.

And she kept walking, sped up. No. No, no, no! Jack strained further. "Plumber!" he shouted, not bothering to lower his voice anymore, "please, Plumber, get the rest of the boys -"

The hand in his hair jerked him back so fast he bent over backwards at the waist, his legs sliding out from under him for a second until he scrambled around and grabbed at the wrist. The pain shot through his scalp and down his neck.

"What did I fucking say?" the guard roared, shaking him agonizingly. Jack yelped and saw Crutchie drop his paintbrush, his face falling.

"M'sorry!" Jack managed to gasp out, and the guard finally let go of his hair. He stumbled away, tears in his eyes out of shock more than pain - how could Katherine just walk away from him? His cheeks burned with humiliation.

Now it was Crutchie's turn to grab his shoulder, squeezing with weak, crooked fingers. "It's okay." he murmured in Jack's ear, eyes fierce and determined to defend. "Who was it?"

Jack looked at the ground; pitch-black paint was threading around the cobblestones, seeping through cracks like old dark blood. "No one," he said softly, following the bleed with his eyes, "it was no one."


End file.
